


Of salve and summer rains

by Snowfea



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Getting Together, M/M, No beta we die like CPGE students, Soft Geralt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 07:14:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29398200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowfea/pseuds/Snowfea
Summary: It had been a week since Jaskier had last played the lute.They had passed through two towns, he had been asked to play multiple times by travelers they had met, and still his lute had stayed in its case. He had taken it out to take care of it, making sure that it was fine, that the strings were not damaged, but other than that – it had been a week since Geralt had last heard his bard playing, and it worried him.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 15
Kudos: 79





	Of salve and summer rains

It had been a week since Jaskier had last played the lute.

  
They had passed through two towns, he had been asked to play multiple times by travelers they had met, and still his lute had stayed in its case. He had taken it out to take care of it, making sure that it was fine, that the strings were not damaged, but other than that – it had been a week since Geralt had last heard his bard playing, and it worried him. 

  
Playing was Jaskier's way of being himself; he still sang, little ditties on the road to divert himself, soft lullabies at night as he braid flowers into Roach's mane, but the lute had stayed silent.

  
The weather had been bad, this past week, and Geralt had tried to stay near towns so they would be able to sleep indoors. He didn't mind sleeping outside, though having a roof over his head was nicer than waking up soaked; but it was mostly for Jaskier, who might be immortal but wasn't as resistant as Geralt. And it was better for his lute to stay in dry places – or so had Jaskier said when Geralt had asked whether it was worth it to run to the next town before nightfall. 

  
They were currently staying at an inn, and were nonchalantly looking around them as they were waiting for their food to arrive. Well, Geralt was; Jaskier was slumped against him, hands resting on his knees, eyes closed, clearly tired from walking. His breath was tickling Geralt's neck, but he endured it stoically. He would have faced anything, really, for Jaskier to be able to rest just for a bit, apparently at peace with himself and the world.

  
The tables next to theirs were full; people were talking loudly, spilling their ale over as they tried to emphasize a point. He could hear a couple arguing in a room upstairs, angry and teary voices harmonizing in a tune that made him want to go back to the quietness of the forest, to soft lullabies barely louder than the crackling of the fire.

  
The candles trying to warm the room with their yellowish light, flickered every time someone in a hurry walked near them, and the front door which was regularly opened was letting in a cold draft that twirled around Geralt's legs. 

  
Jaskier yawned, and straightened up to grab Geralt's ale, making Geralt miss his warmth. Nights weren't supposed to get this cold around this time of the year, but the rain and the wind were enough to make temperatures drop even though the leaves in the trees outside were still green. 

  
_Maybe it’s the weather_ , Geralt thought, _that is making him feel sad_. Though ‘sad’ was not exactly the right word. No, Jaskier was more… Well. He sang, but somehow it didn’t feel like it always did, as if it came from the heart of an innocent and joyous bard. He was far from innocent, Geralt knew that, but he still behaved in a way that made it look as if he wasn’t older than he appeared to be. Now Jaskier was – not _looking_ like his age, but the dreariness of his behavior was sure making him look older. Not _wiser_ , it was still Jaskier after all but – yeah, older. 

  
Geralt directed his attention from the buzzing tavern around them to Jaskier, and the way he winced when he grabbed the ale to drink it. Geralt watched as Jaskier tried to school his features, putting the ale down, then wriggling his fingers only to grimace. He glanced up and Geralt wasn’t quick enough to pretend he hadn’t been looking. He grabbed his own ale, internally sighing with relief when the innkeeper arrived with their food. One awkward moment of questions dodged. 

  
So it wasn’t an emotion thing; thank Melitele, because Geralt wouldn’t have known how to deal with it. No, if it only was something about his hand, then – maybe Geralt would be able to do something. Though it made him feel uneasy, that Jaskier hadn’t told him that something was wrong. He knew Jaskier didn’t owe him anything, knew that he was free to do whatever he pleased – birds only sung when they were free – but it still hurt. That Jaskier wouldn’t tell him. It was stupid to feel hurt over this, even more as emotions were _a weakness you can’t afford, Geralt,_ but – still. He would have to ask him, at some point. The question was: how?

  
He ate his gruel in silence, and tried to be discreet as he looked at the way his bard took his fork in his left hand instead of the right one, how he awkwardly put it down to grab the ale – how his right hand rested on the table, unused, barely moving, fingers bare of any rings. 

They left town the next morning and Geralt still hadn’t managed to find how to ask.

* * *

He tried to be more observant, though. He’d glanced at Jaskier occasionally, almost always finding him clenching and unclenching his fingers, a distant look in his eyes. 

  
So something was wrong with his hand. It couldn’t be broken, Geralt mused, because Jaskier could move it, and certainly would have made it known that he was hurt.

  
But that was the thing, wasn’t it? He hadn’t said anything, though he clearly was in pain if he hadn’t been playing for a week. 

  
_Have I failed_? Geralt asked himself as he and Jaskier went on, walking on a path made muddy by the vicious rains it had be facing. The sky was still threateningly dark, and Geralt looked far ahead as his thoughts went back to Jaskier. 

  
Had he been acting in a way that had made Jaskier believe that he couldn’t tell him if he was hurt? He had always tried to make sure that Jaskier wasn’t in pain – the bard wasn’t the one who had to suffer between the two of them, Geralt thought, and it didn’t bother him to buy salves for Jaskier that he would have never bought for himself. Jaskier deserved the best, and so Geralt did what he could to try to give it to him. 

  
“I’ll find us an inn for tonight,” he said after a silence that had been particularly long, “so your lute won’t have to face humidity again. Though I doubt it’ll rain again.”

  
“Oh, it will,” came Jaskier’s tired voice, “it will, my dear. Trust me.”

  
Of course Geralt trusted him. He wouldn’t be in love with him if he didn’t.

  
“Hmm. An inn it will be, then.”

  
Based on the way Jaskier used his hand, it had to be sore muscles, or something like that. Maybe he had sprained it, but couldn’t get a hand on a cast? Or maybe he just didn’t want to tell Geralt. Either way, Geralt couldn’t stand seeing him in pain. He’d find them a room in the next town, then would leave to find a healer that would be able to sell him something that would help Jaskier. Yes, he would do that.

Satisfied, and a bit reassured that he finally had a plan, he let himself smile when Jaskier started to sing again, even if it lacked the lightness that it usually carried.

* * *

“I- bought you this. For your hand. The healer told me it would help.”

Geralt kept his eyes cast on the ground, stupidly afraid of what Jaskier’s reaction would be. He was an idiot for being nervous – he and Jaskier had traveled together for many years, had seen the other in embarrassing positions; and yet, gifting Jaskier this small salve smelling like peppermint to apply on his hand felt more intimate than all the time they shared a bath to save money. 

  
Jaskier was sitting at the table of their room; it wasn’t a great room, but it had a dusty window, under which was the table, and as soon as they had arrived the bard had started to take his journals out of his bags, probably wanting to work on a new song. It was where Geralt had left him when he had gone out to find a healer, and where he had found him again when he had come back thirty minutes later.

  
He heard Jaskier take the salve and open it; the smell of peppermint intensified, and Geralt tried not to flinch – it attacked his nose and made him want to sneeze, and it covered Jaskier’s scent of honey and wildflowers. It wasn’t exactly unpleasant, but it wasn’t his favorite scent in the world; though if smelling it meant that Jaskier didn’t hurt anymore, well, Geralt was ready to compromise, because what was love without little sacrifices? 

Just when the silence had almost reached the limit between awkward and extremely awkward, Jaskier seemed to remember how to talk.

  
“My hand – you noticed?”

  
Geralt tried not to wince; he deserved that, after many years of not paying enough attention, of not caring enough for-

  
“What are you frowning about? Come sit here next to me, darling,” Jaskier gestured to the other chair, “don’t stand here, you’re making me feel small.”

  
“You are,” Geralt replied, half-smiling, as he hesitantly sat on the chair, still not looking at Jaskier. 

  
They stayed there, still not talking, Geralt waiting for Jaskier to say something and Jaskier – well, Geralt didn’t fucking know what Jaskier was thinking. The salve was on the table between them, ready to be used.

  
Then, because Geralt was a man of action, he grabbed it and put some of it on his fingers. Before thinking too much about it, he delicately took Jaskier’s hand, grip loose enough for Jaskier to be able to remove it at any time, and started to apply the salve on the knuckles – they were swollen, and Geralt gulped. How long had they been like this? How did he not notice? Was he that worthless of a man, to not notice when the person he loved the most was hurt?

  
What he had just done dawned on him. _Oh no_. It was way too out of line, he shouldn’t have done that – Jaskier was going to hate him, and he was going to lose his companionship and-

  
“You’re doing it again,” Jaskier remarked calmly, as if Geralt couldn’t hear his heart racing, “the frowning.”

  
“Hmm,” Geralt replied, not trusting himself to speak, not knowing what to say, confused because Jaskier wasn’t running away from him, clenching his hand against his chest as if Geralt’s touch had burned it.

  
Jaskier sighed, and Geralt tensed.

  
“Darling- you don’t have to do this, you know? The- buying me salve, and then- then applying it yourself-”

  
Geralt glanced at Jaskier to find that his bard was blushing. But looking at him meant risking eye contact, so he stared down at the hand he was currently holding in his own – it was strange, how good they fit together. He wondered what it would be like, to get to held it in his, to feel Jaskier’s calloused fingers around his own, squeezing, not letting him go, a single point of contact between-

  
But he couldn’t let himself think about it.

  
“Hmm. I know. But I still- want to.” 

  
He forced the words out, for Jaskier.

  
“It’s been a bit more than a week, and you haven’t played the lute, and the path- the path has been silent,” he admitted, “and when I found out you were hurt…”

  
He looked up, yellow meeting blue.

  
“Who did this to you, Jaskier? Who hurt you?”

  
Jaskier laughed, his hand shaking a bit in Geralt’s, who returned to his task, which seemed okay with Jaskier. Relieved that he hadn’t just fucked up one of the most important things in his life, and soothed by Jaskier’s laugh, Geralt let himself relax.

  
“Oh, darling, no one- well- you won’t be able to fight the rain, so don’t bother.”

  
“The rain?”

  
“Oh, it’s- I never told you? No, I supposed I haven’t,” Jaskier mused. “Well, it’s very stupid, but a long time ago I hurt my hand, and now every time it rains a lot, it hurts. That’s why I knew it’d rain again tonight” he shrugged, looking outside at the rain that had started to pour just after Geralt had come back.

  
“Only the right hand.”

  
“Yes- you really did notice, didn’t you,” Jaskier sighed.

  
“I’m sorry,” Geralt said, ashamed.

  
He saw Jaskier’s hand still, and he felt a weight settle in his stomach and on his chest, making breathing a bit difficult. Then he was no longer holding his hand – _Jaskier_ grabbed his hand. 

  
“Oh, darling – what are you apologizing for? You’re not the one who caused that, nor are you the one in charge of controlling the weather-”

  
“For not noticing sooner,” Geralt cut in, “for letting you endure one week of this before realizing that it was because your hand hurt, for- for not-”

  
_Not being good enough, when you deserve the best._

  
“Geralt darling, I need you to listen to me,” Jaskier started, his tone so commanding that Geralt had no choice but to obey, “I _hid it_. I don’t like it, so at first I ignored it, then when it really started to hurt I thought that behaving as if the pain wasn’t here would make it go away – that’s when you understood, I think. So – I’m not angry at you, darling, I wouldn’t, not over something so stupid – I’m angry at myself, because I hate the fact that it hurts.”

  
Geralt didn’t reply anything – he didn’t know what to say.

  
“So don’t you worry – you’re actually the best traveling companion a bard could ever ask for! Buying me meals, then salve, then taking care of me? I don’t deserve you, darling.”

  
“It’s not true,” Geralt protested, because he _had_ to say something, couldn’t let Jaskier say that when he was right there, when _he_ was the one undeserving of Jaskier’s presence. “You deserve – everything.”

  
Jaskier smiled a half-smile; it was full of sadness, and Geralt – Geralt didn’t know what to do, because it wasn’t a look that was supposed to be Jaskier’s. 

  
“You _do_ ,” he insisted, “You deserve hot summer afternoons spent doing nothing but playing, you deserve – soft things and fine clothes, and- and- and more,” he concluded lamely.

  
It was something scary to say, to admit that he cared so much. Jaskier had to know, to some extent, that he was dear to Geralt, but this – this was just like Geralt declaring his love or some shit, the whole thing made even more intimate by the closeness of their hands. 

  
The air was still smelling like peppermint, but even it wasn’t strong enough to mask the sudden wildflowers of Jaskier’s happiness.

  
“Oh, Geralt,” he sighed, “I would- would you mind- may I kiss you?”

  
Too numb to speak, Geralt nodded, not really believing what was happening. Jaskier got up, and walked the three steps that separated him from Geralt, letting his hands go. It left Geralt feeling cold, but soon Jaskier’s hands were on each side of Geralt’s face, and he found himself being kissed, the warmth of it replacing the one that he had just lost. 

  
Jaskier sighed into the kiss, and Geralt put one of his hand on his hips. The angle of the kiss was awkward, but he couldn’t get enough of it and found himself feeling lost when it ended.

  
Jaskier settled on his lap, and he put his arms around him to prevent him from falling. Jaskier laughed, hiding his face between Geralt’s neck and shoulder, and Geralt rumbled happily.

  
“If I had known that it was all that it took, I would have done that _ages_ ago, darling.”

  
Geralt huffed a laugh and then, because he could, kissed the side of his head. 

  
“Just so this is clear, Geralt – we deserve each other. I- I love you, and-”

  
“I love you too,” Geralt whispered, “I have for so long. And- it’s not your fault. Don’t be angry at yourself because it hurts.”

  
Jaskier kissed him again, a soft, tender thing, just at the corner of his mouth, and Geralt smiled.

  
“Next time you’re hurt – tell me? So I’ll tell care of you. I don’t- I don’t like seeing you hurt, Julek.”

  
He felt Jaskier smile against his shoulder.

  
“I will,” the bard promised. “But for now, I think your salve helped, do you think you could-”

  
“Of course,” Geralt agreed hastily, reaching to grab the salve that had been forgotten on the table, “give me your hand again, but tell me if it starts to hurt, I’ll stop.”

  
They rearranged themselves to a more comfortable position, then Geralt took Jaskier’s hand, kissed it, and started to massage it again, careful not to press too hard, admiring how warm it made him to be able to do this.

  
He couldn’t believe he got to have this, to be allowed to care for Jaskier in ways he hadn’t thought he’d get. But they had all of eternity to spend together now, Jaskier sometimes getting hurt and Geralt always there to take care of him. Jaskier’s heart was beating steadily, its comforting rhythm lulling Geralt into a relaxed state. Here, alone with his bard, with _Jaskier_ , everything felt right, as if he had finally found where he belonged – next to Jaskier, whether it was on the path or not. He smiled, and Jaskier kissed him, and Geralt knew without a doubt that the future would look bright for both of them, just because they had each other. 


End file.
